


The Council of Fëanor

by morwen_of_gondor



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Attempted Tolkien Pastiche, Celegorm talks to animals, Council of Elrond, Everybody Lives, Fix-It, Fluff and Humor, Fëanor Hijacks the Council of Elrond, Gen, Maedhros and Frodo bond over being The Responsible One, Prank Wars, References to P.G. Woodhouse, The combination of Merry & Pippin with Amrod & Amras should strike fear into all hearts, if that wasn't already obvious, that breaks down after the first chapter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:34:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21724588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morwen_of_gondor/pseuds/morwen_of_gondor
Summary: In which Feanor hijacks the Council of Elrond, Merry and Pippin find partners in crime, Frodo and Maedhros are very concerned, and Caranthir does not appreciate pranks. (Celegorm does.)
Relationships: Amras & Amrod (Tolkien), Bilbo Baggins & Maglor | Makalaurë, Celegorm | Turcafinwë & Boromir (Son of Denethor II), Elrond Peredhel & Maedhros | Maitimo, Elrond Peredhel & Maglor | Makalaurë, Frodo Baggins & Maedhros | Maitimo, Fëanor | Curufinwë & Sons of Fëanor, Merry Brandybuck & Pippin Took, Merry Brandybuck & Pippin Took & Amrod & Amras (be afraid)
Comments: 69
Kudos: 239





	1. Of Interrupted Councils

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: This started out semi-serious, then I thought about what would happen if you put Merry and Pippin in a room with Amrod and Amras, who I am certain were incorrigible pranksters as children, and the second half turned out not to be serious at all.

_"…But have they the strength, have here we the strength to withstand the Enemy, the coming of Sauron at the last, when all else is overthrown?"_

_"I have not the strength," said Elrond; "neither have they."_

_"Then if the Ring cannot be kept from him forever by strength," said Glorfindel, "two things only remain for us to attempt: to send it over the Sea, or to destroy it."_

_"But Gandalf has revealed to us that we cannot destroy it by any craft that we here possess,"_ Elrond had begun, when a stern voice interrupted him from the doorway. "By any craft that you here possess, Elrond Earendilion. But you do not know all crafts, nor do the smiths of Rivendell possess all knowledge."

The Elves of Rivendell seemed struck dumb by the apparition who now entered the room. Frodo looked to Gandalf, and found that he too stood as though frozen, shocked into silence by the strangers, for there were several. He turned to take stock of them, and saw that they were Elves, but unlike the merry folk of the woodlands he knew best or even the grave loremasters of Rivendell. They were tall even by the standards of the Eldar, and he who led the others seemed, to Frodo’s eyes, to burn with a white flame fiercer even than Glorfindel’s. A light burned in his eyes that made it difficult for Frodo to hold his gaze. He surveyed the room in silence, one eyebrow raised and the corner of his mouth quirked upwards, then, without waiting for an invitation, strode towards Frodo and knelt before his seat so that their eyes met.

"The ring you bear carries great evil, small one, but I have never yet met a craft that was beyond my ability to master. Will you permit me to examine it?"

Frodo had several questions, but they all wanted to come out at once, so wordlessly he held forth the Ring once again. The strange elf did not move his hand to take it, but gazed upon it intently, and said, as though to himself, "He stole all his methods from Tyelperinquar, I see. His power was greater than any elf’s, but he must have been careless. It does not surprise me: even when he served Aule, Mairon was seldom subtle, and Morgoth" (here his face twisted as though the word was bitter on his tongue) "was even less so."

He nodded curtly but courteously to Frodo, rose to his feet, and declared to the room at large, "I can unmake this thing. I will require the use of your forges for not more than three days. Curufin, may I rely on your assistance?" 

This last remark was directed to one of the stranger’s followers, who looked so much like him that Frodo thought they must be brothers. Curufin, apparently, bowed his head in agreement.

His attention no longer fixed on the first of the strange visitors, Frodo turned to Elrond for an explanation, but found that Elrond was engrossed in a conversation with two of the strange elf’s followers. One had night-dark hair and, but for the light that glowed in his eyes, might well have been an elf of Imladris, but the other seemed, in the bright sunlight of that autumn day, to be crowned with flame. As Frodo watched, Elrond fiercely embraced the dark-haired elf, smiling in a way that was very much at odds with all of the expressions Frodo had seen him wear in the past. Finding Elrond unlikely to answer, Frodo turned to Gandalf. Pippin, however, forestalled him by appearing from his hiding place behind the door and asking of the room at large, "Will someone please explain to me what is going on?"

Too concerned with the appearance of the strange Elves to concern himself with intruding hobbits for the moment, Elrond turned from his friends to address his baffled visitors, "Counsellors and friends of this Last Homely House, I bid you greet Feanaro Curufinwe and his seven sons, Maedhros, Maglor, Celegorm, Caranthir, Curufin, Amrod, and Amras, returned from Valinor to aid us in our battle against Sauron."

This announcement produced very different effects on the varied folk in the room. Glorfindel smiled as one who knew something that was hidden from others, and bowed low to Feanor, the Elf who had examined the Ring. Feanor nodded graciously in return. Erestor and Galdor of the Havens looked thunderous. Legolas, for all his height and clear strength, seemed suddenly very young, like a strong fir-tree in its coat of green set beside a mighty, lightning-scarred oak. Indeed, all the Elves of the Council seemed suddenly younger, though there was no clear difference of face between them that might explain this seeming. Legolas’ expression of open wonder was tempered by what looked like fear. For the first time since Frodo had met him, Aragorn seemed uncertain what to do, but his face revealed little. Gloin and Gimli rose to their feet and bowed low, not to Feanor, but to Maedhros, the fire-haired Elf who had spoken with Elrond, and he returned the courtesy. Boromir looked rather as though he was not certain whether or not he was awake. Frodo felt himself more out of place than ever, confronted by eight of the great heroes (or villains) from Bilbo’s oldest and most mysterious tales. Merry, Pippin, and Sam (who had all come out of the woodwork, as Elrond seemed disinclined to send them away) were not at all mollified by the introduction. If it was meant as an explanation, it had not explained much to them. This time, it was Merry whose confusion broke through first. "Yes, but who are they and what does that mean?"

For just a moment, a dangerous expression crossed Feanor’s face, and Frodo realised that he was facing the kinslayer of Alqualonde and the challenger of balrogs as well as the maker of the Silmarils, but it was soon replaced by amusement. "I could ask the same of you, small ones who come bearing great rings. The tapestries of Vairë have made no mention of beardless Naugrim!"

"Beardless what?" Pippin cried, as Gimli and Gloin gave lower-pitched rumbles of protest. Feanor’s fair-haired son, who might be Caranthir or Celegorm, Frodo was unsure, seemed to be muffling laughter. Elrond and Maedhros stepped forward, and their good intentions defeated each other as both attempted to smooth things over. However, this seemed to defuse the tension, if not the confusion. Bilbo rose and went over to greet Feanor, and Frodo heard him offer an explanation of what little was known on the origin and descent of hobbits, or halflings, as they were more commonly known in more ancient lands. Frodo believed himself to be facing Curufin.

Somewhat anxious in the presence of one who had both stood against Morgoth and nearly slain Beren Erchamion for spite, Frodo greeted him hesitantly, "My lord?"

Curufin — if it was he — shook his head. "Lord only of waters that lie under the wave. In this age and place, I am simply Curufin."

Frodo breathed an inner sigh of relief that he had gotten the correct name, even if he had not yet spoken it aloud. "Curufin, then. Frodo Baggins at your service."

Curufin had seemingly not encountered this form of introduction before, and only replied, "My thanks."

Frodo carried on with his question. "Did you also wish to inspect the ring, lor…Curufin?"

Curufin paused a moment before replying, "I would be grateful."

Frodo removed the chain from his neck and held the ring out on his open palm. Curufin knelt to inspect it as had Feanor, then touched it gently, with one finger. He withdrew as suddenly as though he had been burned, and his face assumed a very stern expression. 

"Are you all right?"

Curufin shook his head, though Frodo could not tell whether he did so as a gesture of denial or simply in an attempt to clear it. Then he seemed to recover himself. "It is very like my son’s workmanship, but cruelly bent," he answered. "My son, who learnt the craft of the great rings from Thauron, and paid for his folly with his life," he added, as though to himself.

Frodo could not think of anything to say to that except, "I am sorry," so he said it. Curufin shook his head again. "He is better off out of this and in the Halls of Mandos," he answered grimly. With that, he turned on his heel and strode away. Frodo hoped that he had not given offence, but he had no way of remedying it at the moment even if he had, and he was growing curious, so he looked around the room to find out what else was happening.

The Council had ceased to be a council at all, and had become an assortment of miscellaneous people, all having various conversations in different languages. Curufin had joined his father, who had evidently extricated himself from Bilbo, and they were speaking to Elrond in the high tongue of the elves across the Sea, of which Frodo understood little. He supposed they were making arrangements for the destruction of the Ring. Bilbo and Maglor were deep in conversation about something. Merry and Pippin were laughing with Amrod and Amras. Frodo wondered what they had found in common, and whether he ought to warn Lord Elrond about it. "I suppose that I should, if the younger brothers of Elven families are anything like young hobbits," he thought. As if in response to his internal question, a voice far above his head said, "If I were forced to guess, I would say grass snakes."

Frodo turned about to look for the owner of the voice and found himself gazing at the lower hem of a red tunic. The speaker, it seemed, towered nearly four feet over him. He craned his neck upwards to meet the eyes of Maedhros, who was smiling. Frodo noticed for the first time that Maedhros’ face was scarred, which was not usual among elves. This made the smile slightly alarming, but it seemed genuine, so Frodo, emboldened, asked, "I beg your pardon?"

Maedhros sat down so that Frodo was no longer craning his neck to meet his eyes, and nodded towards the group of hobbits and elves, who were now engaged in a vigorous discussion of the weather, looking remarkably innocent. From long experience, Frodo decided that they must have noticed his gaze. "You were wondering what common ground your young friends had found with my brothers. If it is not putting grass snakes in others’ beds, then it will unquestionably be something worse."

Frodo surprised himself by laughing. "If your brothers are half as bad as my cousins, then half of Rivendell will have their vegetables stolen before the week is out."

Maedhros raised an eyebrow and, for a moment, looked startlingly like his father. His expression, however, was not arrogant amusement, but a mixture of weariness and fondness known only to older brothers and cousins. "I see. I will inspect my belongings this evening to ensure that no stolen vegetables have mysteriously found their way into my dress robes."

"And I will make certain that my bed is free of grass snakes. By the way, does your brother need rescuing? Bilbo gets rather enthusiastic about the old tales of hobbit lore sometimes, and not everyone shares his keenness."

"Never fear. Maglor is a bard. If he cannot be relaying a tale himself, then he is never happier than when he is listening to one he has never heard before, and your uncle is no mean weaver of tales himself."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not clear in the fic, but Feanor & Sons have been sent back to atone for some of their crimes by helping fight Sauron. Elrond was too tactful to mention it.
> 
> Italicised lines at the top are quoted from "The Council of Elrond" in The Fellowship of the Ring.
> 
> Also, I’ve assumed that Elves who are re-embodied keep what they see as the defining features of their appearances, so Maedhros still has his scars and missing hand from Angband, because he spent so long looking like that that he’s used to it.
> 
> Gimli and Gloin bow to Maedhros because he saved Azaghâl, lord of Belegost, one of the great dwarven cities of the First Age. It was a rare enough incident to be notable in an Elvish history, and dwarves have long memories.
> 
> As always, feedback and comments are appreciated!


	2. Of Orc-Hunting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bonus Celegorm and Boromir!

While Frodo was making Maedhros’ acquaintance, Boromir was surveying the room in utter confusion, and wondering if he should ask someone to pinch him. Surely, even in a world where Isildur’s Bane had come to light from the hands of a Halfling in the house of Elrond Halfelven (of whom Boromir would have known even if it were not for Faramir’s tales, for he had served under King Gil-Galad at the Battle of Gorgoroth), the dead did not simply return to life! But Elrond seemed to have accepted it. There was no accounting for Elves, so Boromir turned his gaze to the only other Man in the room. Before he had caught Aragorn’s attention, however, he was halted by a mighty clap on the shoulder, and turned to meet the pale grey eyes of Celegorm. Feanor’s third son seemed not to entirely belong with the rest of his family: his hair was such a pale blond as to be almost silver, which somewhat obscured his resemblance to Feanor and his brothers. Having forcefully obtained Boromir’s attention, he turned on a brilliant smile, and said cheerfully, "Elrond tells me you’re a soldier."

Boromir stumbled over his affirmative. A man who had seen as many battles as he had was generally difficult to disconcert, but none of his elaborate educations in court etiquette and battlefield strategy had prepared him to meet a resuscitated legend of the First Age, much less one whose surviving reputation made him out to be so formidable and easily angered as Celegorm the Fair.

"Wonderful! Perhaps we can leave the loremasters and diplomats to their long-winded conversations and you can tell me some of the important things about this new age. Namo has no sense of what you might actually want to know, and Vaire’s tapestries are all either about leaves falling through the air or dramatic moments from massive duels which tell you nothing about what actually happens, and what I want to know is how the hunting is! The Orc-hunting, that is." 

Boromir paused to consider this offer, and found that he rather liked the idea. Though growing up as the eldest son of the Steward of Gondor carried with it certain diplomatic responsibilities, Faramir had always been the one gifted with the gentle words to smooth ruffled feathers and maintain civility between short-tempered counsellors. Boromir had always felt that what men like that most needed was a good dose of real life, courtesy of the battlefield, or, failing that, a good clout to the head. This council, though far more needful than most he had attended, had already brought with it more talking than he really liked. He mustered his own best smile in return, the one he used for real friends, not diplomats, and asked, "Orc-hunting, eh? Of what do you wish to hear?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Celegorm is taking over this story, the drama queen. I thought it was done, but no, he wanted more time in the spotlight, so here y'all go!


	3. Of Snakes and Hot-Water Bottles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which this work loses all pretence of seriousness because the Fearsome Foursome took over and decided they wanted to start a prank war.

That evening, Frodo found his way to his quarters late, for there had been a feast to welcome Feanor and his sons, and Maglor had sung many songs in the Hall of Fire. His skill exceeded that of even the greatest of Elrond’s musicians, and only when he had laid aside his harp had Frodo been able to tear himself away. There was a merry crowd of Elves, two Men and a handful of Dwarves making their way to their rooms for the night, and, in the case of those not accustomed to the Last Homely House, getting lost. Frodo was fortunate that his rooms were near to the Hall of Fire. He was just ready to slip between the sheets when he recalled his conversation with Maedhros, and threw them back instead. There was indeed a snake in his bed, but it was not, whatever else it might be, a grass snake. It was nearly an ell long, and had shining scales the colour of obsidian. Frodo doubted that even the perilous conspiracy which had been formed under the nose of the Council of Elrond would extend to putting venomous snakes in others’ beds, but he had never seen one of precisely this type in the Shire, and did not wish to take his chances. In any case, he did not wish to share his bed with it. He put his head out into the hall in the vague hope that the perpetrators might be near enough to ask. They were not, and he determined that his best course was to find an elf of the household and ask for assistance.

As he was pondering what, exactly, Merry and Pippin (or Amrod and Amras) had put into his bed, he did not take overmuch notice of his surroundings, and so nearly walked straight into a very tall, thoroughly damp elf who was standing in the passageway. Frodo stopped just in time, and was rewarded with a truly impressive cry of, "AMBARUSSAR!" During the feast, Frodo had managed to sort out all of the sons of Feanor except for the twins. Maedhros and Elrond had both been very understanding of his confusion, and subsequently very helpful. Thus, he was able to identify the shouting elf as Caranthir. Frodo enquired mildly, "Was it a snake or stolen cabbages?"

Caranthir looked at Frodo immediately, rather than engaging in the ritual of looking around, behind, and down which most folk unfamiliar with hobbits used. "Neither," he answered crossly. "My bed flooded while I was in it."

"Oh dear. The old hot-water bottle trick. I really thought they had outgrown that."

"What, precisely, is a hot-water bottle? And with my youngest brothers, the answer to the question 'have they outgrown that' is alway no."

Frodo was in the midst of explaining what a hot-water bottle was, and what it was for, as Caranthir did not seem to consider that the cold could interfere with sleep, when an equally damp Celegorm came striding swiftly down the passageway. Upon noticing Caranthir and Frodo, he stopped and asked, "You too?" 

Shortness was evidently Caranthir’s defining characteristic, at least when his bed was soaking. His answering "Yes" was almost a growl. Frodo explained about the snake, and Celegorm leaned against the wall to laugh for quite a long time before he calmed himself enough to say, "Now that, I can mend and have mended. It has always been a favourite of Ambarussa’s, and I shall never forget the time they put one in Uncle Fingolfin’s bed when we were all gathered for Findekano’s naming-day! Atar was too busy laughing to scold them, but Maedhros looked angry enough to burst. As for my bed, I am beginning to think that it is entirely beyond help, barring intervention from Ulmo himself, as all the waters of the sea seem to have found their way into it."

Frodo led Celegorm to his room. The snake was as he had left it, but raised its head to hiss at them when Frodo half-heartedly put out a hand and made shooing motions. Celegorm gently moved him aside, and hissed softly between his teeth, at which the snake twined itself around his forearm, looking rather like a large, shining black ornament of some kind. Startled by the fact that Celegorm, as it seemed, spoke the language of snakes, Frodo did not move until he was already making his way toward the garden. Then he was struck by a truly brilliant idea, and exclaimed, "Wait!"

Celegorm turned around inquiringly. "Yes?"

"Don’t you think that a little revenge might be justified?"

Celegorm gave him a truly terrifying smile in return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If hobbits are British enough to scream like railway engines in _The Hobbit_ , they’re British enough to have hot water bottles, at least in my opinion. The hot-water bottle trick is something I learnt from P.G. Woodhouse, and consists of (preferably while your victim is in their bed) stealthily puncturing said bottle with a needle tied to the end of a stick so that the water slowly floods their bed. It strikes me as the sort of thing that Merry and Pippin would definitely do, and Amrod and Amras be very happy to learn about, so the two sets of mischief-makers agreed on a prank swap.
> 
> As for whose bed the snake will be going in - I leave that to the reader's imagination. :-) This is only the beginning. Elrond will be tearing his hair out in a couple of days.
> 
> Caranthir doesn’t look up for Frodo’s voice first because he also had quite a few dealings with the Dwarves in the First Age and is much more used to being around short people than most elves.
> 
> This work is functionally complete, but I have some more content in the works featuring more Fëanorians and fellowship members, so it may be updated again or I may just add a one-shot to the series. If people want it, I might also take a stab at writing some of the Ring-destroying process.


	4. Of Forges, Twins and Cousins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fëanor deals with the Ring. Frodo deals with the terrifying strike team of pranksters who have formed right under Elrond's nose and are dealing destruction and mayhem wherever they go. Merry and Pippin cook mushrooms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last, the muse has come back and I have managed another chapter. Of course, then I realised that I needed another chapter after _that_ to do justice to the ending, and so there'll be another one coming hopefully soon. Thank you to everyone who has commented on this fic so far; you have been my motivation for finally kicking myself into gear!

The morning after the feast, Fëanor betook himself to the forges with Curufin and Frodo for company. The forges had been set in readiness by Elrond’s people, and Curufin, by dint of a little blowing and much singing (which latter activity surprised Frodo very much, though it clearly encouraged the fire) soon had a hot bed of coals ready in one of them. "Now, Frodo," Fëanor said, turning to the hobbit, "the Ring."

Not without reluctance, Frodo unfastened the chain from around his neck and gingerly held the ring out to Fëanor, who took it with a look compounded of disgust and keen interest.

"You’re sure that’s the right one?" came a voice from behind him. 

Frodo whirled around, startled, to see the two Ambarussar leaning on the sides of the forge’s doorframe and grinning merrily at him. Before the startled hobbit could think of anything to say — surely, _surely_ even the twins egged on by Merry and Pippin would not have tampered with the One Ring, of all things — the twins simultaneously flinched, a gesture which, in Frodo’s experience with his cousins, meant that they had met the eyes of an authority. Turning around, he saw that Fëanor was glaring at his two youngest. By the time he turned around again, the Ambarussar had disappeared. 

"They didn’t really do anything to it, did they?" Frodo asked, beginning to be concerned.

"They did not," Fëanor reassured him. "You have borne this thing long enough that you would know if it were changed for a counterfeit, and I can see that its power is unchanged."

Seized by curiosity, as Fëanor set the Ring down on the anvil between himself and his son, Frodo asked, "May I watch?"

Fëanor considered for a time. Finally, with the air of one who grants a great favour, he said, "You may. But do not interfere, and come no closer than you now stand, or I cannot vouch for what may become of you. I am not accustomed to working in the company of mortals."

Frodo seated himself on an unused anvil several yards away from the busy elves, and watched them intently. As he knew little of smithcraft and nothing of the art of making rings, he could make little sense of what they were doing, though he could see that there were a great many hammers of various shapes and sizes involved, along with much alternate heating and cooling. At intervals one or the other of the smiths would sing or chant something. Once, as Fëanor sang, there was a sudden smell of ozone in the air, and Frodo felt all the hair on the back of his neck stand on end as Fëanor scowled intently at the Ring.

Intent upon the proceedings, he did not notice his own hunger or how far the sun had risen into the sky until it was nearly ten o’clock in the morning and his stomach was beginning to protest, for he had had no breakfast. As Fëanor and Curufin showed no signs of halting their work to take breakfast, or perhaps had already had it, he excused himself with thanks for the privilege of watching, as that seemed the thing to do. He received the briefest of acknowledgements and went in search of Rivendell’s kitchen, which, after Sam’s helpful directions the previous day, he was reasonably certain of finding. 

When he arrived in the kitchen, however, he was in no way prepared for what he found. The first thing he noticed was the tantalising smell of mushrooms and bacon, which was not something one often found in Lord Elrond’s kitchens in the hours between breakfast and lunch. The second was that there were two fire-haired Elves doing something to or in one of the cupboards. Caution nearly overcame hunger, and Frodo thought, for a long moment, of beating a hasty retreat and perhaps going in search of Maedhros, who, if he was any judge of character, was the most likely person, other than his father, to be able to find a way of checking his incorrigible younger brothers before something irrevocable happened.

The smell of mushrooms was, in the end, what decided him. He pushed the half-open door a little further by way of announcing his presence — and was promptly doused in icy water. The falling bucket narrowly missed his head and fell to the floor with a _clunk_. Drenched, freezing, and spluttering, his immediate reaction, cemented by years of both playing and receiving pranks, was to shout, "Merry! Pippin!" at the top of his lungs.

Two curly brown heads appeared around the corner, and their owners promptly dissolved into laughter. Frodo marched over, seized each miscreant cousin by the collar, and shook them hard. "Mushrooms," he demanded, "or I will tell Elrond _and_ Maedhros."

"We ate them already!" Pippin protested, between shouts of laughter.

"And that wasn’t meant for you, it was for the cook," Merry put in in his most reasonable voice. "We can’t be held accountable for you stepping into the middle of our business just because you smelled mushrooms."

"I can and will hold you accountable," Frodo said with as much dignity as he could muster while dripping water onto the kitchen floor, "unless you provide me with breakfast."

Two pairs of eyes widened in surprise. "You haven’t eaten breakfast yet?" Merry and Pippin asked as one.

_"I,"_ Frodo replied, "had things to do this morning. Things other than making a mess of Elrond’s kitchen."

"This morning, certainly you did, but it’s nearly eleven," Merry said, still surprised. 

"It’s ten, and I had never seen Elvish smiths at work before."

"A sight well worth seeing," said two voices in unison from behind Frodo, who spun to face them and nearly slipped in the puddle he had created on the tile floor. "And the mushrooms were well worth eating," added the one on the left, "if not perhaps enough to justify the strange enthusiasm you small mortals seem to have for them."

He glared up at the two unrepentantly grinning Elves. Privately, he found it rather disconcerting to see an expression he was intimately familiar with from his interactions with his own cousins on the faces of two Elves of the First Age, who were always terrible and glorious people in Bilbo’s stories. Certainly they never did things like hide snakes in peoples’ beds or puncture their hot water bottles or grin like naughty Hobbit children who had gotten away with their mischief. That last train of thought prompted a question of, "Didn’t you two cause enough trouble for one day with that snake last night?"

"The snake’s placement was none of my doing," said one twin. Frodo had utterly given up any hope of ever being able to tell them apart. How Maedhros seemed to instinctively know which of them was which, no matter how many times they changed chairs, was beyond him.

"Neither placement was our doing," said the other.

"Then you were busy with the hot water bottles, I take it."

This accusation was greeted with silence, which Frodo knew to be as good as a confession. He sighed. "Can I please have my breakfast in peace?" he asked again. "I know you two scamps" — and here he turned to Merry and Pippin — "have hoarded some mushrooms and bacon somewhere. Give them to me, and I’ll forget that you drenched me and meant to drench the cook, and I’ll also forget about whatever you two," turning to the Ambarussar, "have done to that cupboard."

The Ambarussar looked impressed at the latter observation, though they strenuously denied having done anything to the cupboard. Then, unfortunately, Pippin had an idea, and asked, "Wait, Frodo, if we put the snake in your bed, and Amrod and Amras didn’t move it, then who put it in Glorfindel’s?"

Frodo looked at them with all the superiority of greater age and skill. "I," he said firmly and repressively, "have no idea. When you set snakes loose in a house, you really shouldn’t question how they end up where they do."

Stymied in his attempt to startle a confession out of Frodo, Pippin produced the hoarded mushrooms and bacon — or some of them; Frodo knew his cousins better than to assume they would yield their entire store even for deliverance from older-cousinly disapproval — with an almost subdued air. Frodo ate hungrily while Merry, Pippin, Amrod and Amras cleaned up the puddle by the door and set the trap once more. Rather than risk the peril of the door once more, Frodo slipped out the window into the kitchen garden and made his way back to the forges, both because he was truly interested in what Fëanor and Curufin would be doing now and because he was fairly sure that even the four pranksters would respect the sanctuary of those who were working to destroy the Ring.


	5. Of The Destruction of the Ring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The process of destroying the Ring reaches its climax. Then there are some things to sort out about Fëanor and his sons and their place in the household of Rivendell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I'm back. I have nothing to say for myself except I've been writing WOTR and all my creative energies have been going that way. Then, suddenly, the muse for this story popped back up and lo and behold, the final chapter has arrived. Thank you to everyone who's stuck with me through the nonexistent update schedule!
> 
> Also, please accept my apologies for being late on WOTR again, and take this chapter as compensation.

The next day, Fëanor did not allow anyone into the forge where he and Curufin were working, and Pippin, who snuck close enough to peer through the window, came back very quickly indeed, reporting that his hair had all stood on end and he’d felt as though lightning was liable to strike him any minute. There was a general feeling of mingled anticipation and worry through the whole valley. The Elves appeared and disappeared carrying ancient books and maps, seemingly at random, all of them moving with an air of concerned urgency. Their guests stood in little knots, talking about anything except the forbidden forges and casting occasional curious glances towards them, usually when the feeling of electricity in the air had noticeably increased. Merry, Pippin, Amrod, and Amras were shockingly quiet that day, though this perhaps was because they were still feeling the effects of the chief cook’s scolding the previous night. Said scolding had only ended because dinner was about to begin, and the noise of it had carried quite a long way through the halls, to the immense entertainment of Bilbo, Frodo, and, they suspected, Elrond. 

Even the hobbits were very nearly late for dinner, and when Fëanor and Curufin reappeared, dusted with ash but looking quite satisfied with themselves, they were greeted by a regular welcoming committee of silently curious folk, which they proceeded to ignore entirely, walking past in dignified and slightly haughty silence, leaving everyone even curiouser than before.

The third day, Fëanor appeared at breakfast already attired for the forge, and announced to his sons, "This day’s labours will need you all. All that can be done in the forge has been done. Today we go out where there are none who may be hurt by this thing’s destruction." Then, his eyes lighting on Merry and Pippin, he added, "Let none follow us who wishes to live whole."

With that, the eight of them swept out the doors and disappeared. Shortly afterwards, the feeling of crackling electricity and the smell of ozone returned, stronger than ever even though, according to Glorfindel, the Fëanorians had been walking well away from the city of Rivendell when last he saw them. 

As the sun rose to its height, those who were watching saw a shadow rise up from the westward wastes like the huge figure of a man, and then there was an indescribable noise, like the _crack_ of snapping metal mixed up with a rusty gate creaking and the cries of a dying man, and everyone immediately dropped whatever they had been pretending to do to cover their ears. The shadow vanished, and suddenly the air felt very light, as though an invisible weight had been lifted from shoulders that had forgotten their burden. Frodo suddenly stood up straight, though he had not realised that his shoulders were bowed before, and took a deep breath of clean air that tasted as though it had just then swept down from the very tops of the snowy mountains.

Glorfindel laughed aloud, and then broke into clear song, and soon many others had joined him, and the sweet sound of elvish voices, uplifted in many songs of rejoicing, rang out through the valley. It was to that music that Fëanor and his seven sons returned to the valley of Imladris, bearing their tools but no Ring. All were scorched and smeared with soot, and Fëanor’s right hand, bandaged carefully with linen torn from a shirt, rested in a rough sling, and yet all of them, even grim Maedhros and haughty Curufin, were smiling. The Ambarussar were laughing together as though at some secret joke. Maglor and Fëanor were singing merrily, and Maglor’s rich voice took up all the many songs of joy and wove them into a single, masterful theme that shone like clear water in the sunlight. The folk of Rivendell poured out of their houses behind them, and by the time they reached the Last Homely House there was a regular procession of singing, laughing elves in the street. Some of them were even dancing. Merry and Pippin, caught up in the general merriment, jumped up on a wide windowsill and set to dancing the Springlering, which endeavour ended with them tumbling off the windowsill and into one of the groups of elves, but nobody seemed to care at that moment, and their hands were caught up by the dancing elves, and they were whirled away into the singing throngs.

Elrond, smiling widely, met Fëanor and his sons, and all their procession of singing followers, at the gate of the Last Lonely House. "Is it done?" he asked.

"Yes," said Fëanor. "Thauron’s Ring is destroyed, and his ties to this world and his own form are severed forever. He will never return."

Elrond’s smile widened, and then his face changed and grew solemn as he reached out smoothly to clasp Fëanor’s left hand in gratitude. "Thank you," he said quietly, but with a force to the words that all could feel. "Thank you."

"My sons and grandson are avenged," Fëanor replied. "You need not thank me."

"I do so regardless," Elrond said, his smile returning, "for all Middle-Earth now owes you and your sons their freedom. But you are wounded."

"No wound that any leech on this shore can cure."

"That is for me to judge, Grandfather."

Fëanor’s eyes widened in surprise at that title. So startled was he that he made no protest as Elrond led him to the healers’ wing to see to his hand. The crowd did not disperse with his departure, however, and Frodo found himself caught up in the general merriment and pulled out into the street. 

It was nearly dark by the time he found his way back, weary but still light in every limb. Frodo had not felt right, going up to thank Fëanor before the crowd and drawing attention to himself, but he was equally sure that it would be churlish to go longer than necessary before he said it now that the crowds were breaking up. He went in search of the rooms belonging to the healers, where he himself had spent his first days in Rivendell, and found himself walking into the middle of a conversation that made him feel at once very awkward and very much at home.

"Father, you match Maedhros!" said a voice that belonged to one of the Ambarussar — as always, Frodo was not sure which. 

"If only you had picked opposite hands so you could mirror each other," said what was probably the other one.

"I am your father, boys," said a growl that was unmistakably Fëanor’s — Curufin’s voice was much like his, but it was smoother, polished silver where Fëanor’s was stern iron. "I saw you into this world, and I do not need the use of both hands to see you out of it again."

There was a yelp, a scuffle, and a _thwap,_ as though a pillow had suddenly struck a hard surface — or an elf — and the twins darted into the hallway, followed by Elrond’s clear laugh and Fëanor’s booming one.

"Father’s a bit testy at the moment," said the Ambarussa on the left, looking down and seeing Frodo.

"All I’m going to do is say 'thank you'," Frodo retorted. "I’m not going to start teasing him about his hand."

"Have it your own way," said the Ambarussa on the right, as Frodo walked past them, adding over his shoulder, "Good luck!"

Frodo walked cautiously into the room where Elrond had, it seemed, just now finished tending to Fëanor’s arm. The Elf looked up when he stepped through the door, and Frodo wondered how much of the conversation outside he had overheard. Fortunately, however, his gaze as he looked at Frodo seemed more amused than annoyed. The best course of action when you weren’t sure how much of your conversation had been overheard, as Frodo had learned from Merry and Pippin’s antics, was to pretend that none of it had been and that you had no idea anyone was listening, and so he drew himself up and looked Fëanor in the eye. 

It was rather unnerving to be the sole object of Fëanor’s gaze. Elrond could, on occasion, make Frodo feel as though he was looking right through him and seeing everything in his head, but he had only done so once, at the council, and otherwise, though he certainly carried an air of mystery and even of power, did not discomfit Frodo overmuch, accustomed as he was to Gandalf’s presence. Looking at Fëanor, however — or rather, looking at Fëanor when he was attending to you — was rather like receiving the full attention of a thunderstorm or a forest fire, and Frodo was not sure what rules of politeness one ought to follow when speaking to someone who seemed to be as much a personified force of nature as, well, a _person._ "I don’t think I’ve said 'thank you' yet," he began.

"You need not," Fëanor answered before he could say anything else. "I have owed vengeance to Thauron and his master for three Ages of the World, for many things, and what I did, I did for the sake of my vengeance and my family."

This, of course, was not quite the polite thing to say to someone who had just thanked you, but Frodo found himself, surprisingly, rather more at home, and carried on boldly, "Well, whether or not Hobbits or the Shire ever came into your head when you were destroying the Ring, I shall thank you. If you hadn’t turned up I don’t know what we would have done or what might have happened to me or to the Shire."

Fëanor’s keen gaze softened into a smile, though the feel of lightning in the air about him did not abate. "You would have done more than you believe yourself capable of, I deem, had it come to that," he answered, and Frodo once more had the sense that the Elf was looking through or into him, and seeing things about him that he himself could not see.

"That’s as may be, but I’m not sorry that I’ll never find out what I would have done. I’ve always wanted to travel and have adventures — go see all the places Uncle Bilbo wrote about, you know — but that’s not the sort of journey I would have had to take if you hadn’t destroyed the Ring."

"You are wise, then," Fëanor said thoughtfully. "Those who wish to test themselves in great matters all too often find themselves more cruelly tested than they would ever have wished."

Frodo remembered the fragments of tales that Bilbo had told him from the First Age of the World, glittering, splendid, terrible stories, and the name of Fëanor’s kindred running through them all like a thread in a tapestry, sometimes a brilliant light shining through the darkness, more often a bloodstained part of the darkness itself, and felt that the conversation was rather getting out of his depth. Fëanor did not seem to be the sort of person who would take well to words of sympathy from someone who had no idea of what had really happened in any case, so instead, Frodo said, "I hear that there’s to be a feast tonight in celebration of the end of the war, you know."

"If there is anything Elrond has taught me of halflings," Fëanor said with a smile, "it is not to come between them and their meals. Come. Let us to the banquet."

It was indeed a feast of special magnificence, and the merriment was in no way impaired by Maedhros leaping over a table to chase Amrod and Amras across the hall because one or the other had repeated what they said earlier about Fëanor matching him now. "All the Elves seem to have gone a bit mad," Sam said, watching from his place beside Frodo on the dais (where he sat against his will, having been firmly informed by Elrond that tonight he was an honoured guest) as Maedhros, evidently not at all incommoded by his missing hand, wrestled one of his youngest brothers into a headlock while neatly tripping the other into Caranthir’s firm grasp.

Frodo laughed, something he had found himself doing far more often than he expected even since the Ring’s destruction. "If they’re mad, Sam, so am I," he replied. "I think it’s the Ring being gone. It’s like the sun has come out from the clouds, only the clouds had been there so long I’d forgotten what the sun looked like. _Oh, springtime and summertime, and spring again after,"_ he cried, remembering Tom Bombadil’s house, _"the light on the linden-tree, and the leaves’ laughter!"_

The work of the Council of Elrond was hardly done. Later, Elrond and Gandalf and Boromir and Aragorn would retreat to Elrond’s study with old books and maps and talk about the future of Gondor, and Fëanor and Curufin and Elrond would retreat to the forges with Vilya and talk about the future of Middle-Earth, and the hobbits would retreat to Bilbo’s room and talk about travelling and Rings while Bilbo nodded over his book. But the war was won. The sun had come out from the clouds, and all else that they might need to see done would be done in the sunlight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of the story proper. The next chapter is a bonus, in the form of some amusing brainstorming for this story that I thought people might enjoy.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has commented or kudos-ed on this story.


	6. Bonus: Fëanorian Headcanons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some headcanons I put together about the House of Fëanor and how they would interact with the Fellowship, and thought others might also enjoy.

Feanor is extremely intelligent and powerful, and he knows it, but he’s not really that experienced in war. Come to think of it, he never actually had to clean up after a battle. He knows all about the adrenaline rush and the joy of battle, and not much about the aftermath. During his stay in the Halls of Mandos, he has become a lot more aware of his inexperience, and of his paranoia problems. He is, however, still the most powerful of the Noldor, and he does know what he’s doing with rings. He may even have gotten a briefing from Celebrimbor in the Halls of Mandos before release. He is also, in some ways, remarkably innocent compared to some of his sons. They have a tendency to act much older than he does, except Ambarussa. He’s also probably safe from the Ring’s lure, for the simple reason that he would never use someone else’s shoddy ripoff of his grandson’s tech to take over the world. If he wanted to create a master ring, he’d make his OWN master ring, thank you very much! If he forgets to pack something, he makes a new one on the fly out of spit and baling wire.

Maedhros is frightening. If Angband was a forge, he came out a weapon, and a very good one. The Silmarillion says that "orcs fled before his face," and orcs are not exactly cuddly, so to terrify them you have to be either truly formidable in battle or very scary looking. Maedhros is both, not by being hideously ugly but by enjoying battle, a lot. The Orcs are, after all, probably powered in some way by Morgoth’s will still on the loose in Middle-Earth, and any chance to kill or inconvenience part of Morgoth, he will jump at. He has a very good psycho smile, which may or may not be because he has arguably been insane. The Halls of Mandos did a lot for his assorted mental issues and PTSD, which I’m pretty sure he has in spades, but he is in a war zone again now, and those reflexes come back quickly. That said, he’s also the oldest of seven, and grew up with two brilliant and inspired artists for parents. He spent a lot of time looking after younger brothers, and he’s very good with children and adolescents. Half his afternoons in Valinor were spent trying to entertain at least one baby, one toddler, and one moody adolescent, not to mention making sure that Feanor came out of his workshop at least once a day to eat something (Nerdanel could be relied upon to come out of her workshop to eat periodically, but not to keep up with anything else). The other half were spent managing family politics and trying to keep his uncle and father and assorted cousins from tearing each other apart (he seems to be on good terms with Fingolfin). Even Frodo admires his skill at managing Merry and Pippin. He’s practically the only person other than Feanor who can control Curufin, sort of. If nobody else makes a decision, he will tell everyone what to do regardless of whether he’s technically in charge. He can make himself agreeable to almost anyone except Legolas, so most of the Fellowship ends up more or less friends with him. If he forgets to pack something, he does without. Nobody is really sure when he sleeps.

Maglor looks completely harmless until he needs to be completely terrifying, and then he is, which makes him in some ways worse than Maedhros. He sings songs around the campfire, funny ones when everyone is scared and heroic ones when they need inspiration. He is, in the biased opinion of Celegorm, semi-nocturnal. He gets first watch, because he always stays awake later than everybody else anyway. If Maedhros is the consummate manager of children and young cousins, Maglor is the consummate entertainer. Mentally, he knows that the hobbits are mostly grown, although he has private reservations about Pippin counting in that group, but physically he has a lot of reflexes from raising children, and periodically picks them up when he’s thinking about something else. It would be almost impossible to forget that Maedhros was forged in the wars of the first age even if it wasn’t for the missing hand. Everything about him just kind of screams "soldier just off the field". Maglor, on the other hand, makes it very, very easy to forget, until suddenly he doesn’t. Merry and Pippin kind of adopt him as an odd sort of slightly forgetful Elvish grandpa. Then he pulls out a knife and a sword and proceeds to kill everything vaguely Orc-shaped in a ten-yard radius, and they are a little appalled. Curufin smirks at this. Maglor is also very good at winning arguments by being quiet for a long time and then suddenly being very loud. His mother-name basically means "voice could cut metal," after all. The House of Feanor shouts a lot, and he has learned the art of cutting through noise. He is mostly quiet, though, unless he has something to say, except with Merry and Pippin. He also does without if he forgets something while packing.

Celegorm is the hunter, the scout, and the friend of (non-prey) animals. (To everyone’s immense surprise, he becomes friends with Sam because of this, and periodically interprets for Bill. With Sam, he’s probably saying the truth. With anyone else, it’s a toss-up between that and looking for laughs, and the difference isn’t always as obvious as you might think.) He is the quickest to be openly offended of the brothers, but his temper tends to explode and then blow over, rather than taking the form of eternal resentment. On the flip side, he’s also the quickest to mirth and has a tendency to see the funny side of things, even when they are inconvenient and everybody else is grumpy. He gets up really, really early. Maglor does not appreciate this, even on a journey. In the end, everyone just agrees that he gets the last watch of the night. He doesn’t mind. Curufin generally helps him keep his temper in check. If he forgets anything while packing, everything in a mile radius will know when he figures out that he’s forgotten it and starts yelling. Then he’ll forget that he forgot it. This process may occur multiple times.

Caranthir is short in his speech, but he doesn’t do it to be rude. It just sort of comes out that way. This means that he has a way of cutting to the chase in long conversations. He likes dwarves, partially for their straightforwardness, and makes friends with Gimli. He does not, under any circumstances, make small talk. He also bonds with Sam and proves to be a surprisingly good cook. He sees much more than he says and is better at listening than you might think, although he is very intelligent and gets exasperated quickly with what he sees as stupidity. His bluntness is not the result of not having a filter, it’s the result of not caring enough to use it. When he wants to be, he’s very diplomatic. Most of the time he completely fails to see any reason to use his diplomatic skills. He is very detail-oriented, so he finds another commonality with Sam in his thorough packing and habit of picking up things that other people have left behind. He never forgets anything when he is packing.

Curufin is quiet, but in a different way from Maglor, who deliberately cultivates kindness, calm and gentleness, or Caranthir, who just…has no reason to use lots of words. His kind of quiet is icy and calculating. He sees everything, watches everyone, and says nothing. If he ever wants to insult you, then he will pick something really private and really hurtful, and save it until he can get the maximum value of hurt, humiliation and embarrassment. He doesn’t yell when he’s angry, unlike every single other member of the family. He hisses. It might sound comical, as though he is an overlarge cat, but the only person who dares to find it funny is Maedhros, and as he has talked to Morgoth face to face practically at the height of his power, his idea of what is funny vs what is terrifying is rather skewed. If Maglor is privately also amused because he remembers tiny Curvo hissing about being made to eat his vegetables in Valinor, he is too diplomatic to say so. Curufin’s stay in Mandos did a lot for his Machiavellian tendencies, but he remains a consummate politician and, frankly, manipulator. He does it for good reasons now, but he can’t quite help noticing and committing every little thing to memory, so whenever he talks to someone, it is through the filter of those observations unless he really, really, really trusts them. (There was one exception to that rule involving Dwarven ale. He never speaks of it.) He is the one that the Fellowship takes the longest to get used to. (This is partially because he inherited Feanor’s habit of looking down his nose at everyone, and partly because he’s taller than everybody except his other brothers and can’t quite help literally looking down on everybody.) Oddly enough, it is Boromir who manages to start the thawing process, through the tried-and-true process of bonding over brothers. Faramir is a better man than Curufin may ever have been, maybe even including this reincarnation, but his influence over Boromir’s hastiness is similar to Curufin’s over Celegorm’s, and Boromir points out this fact. Curufin is used to being the kinslayer that everyone hates even more than the ones who actually killed more people because of the whole Luthien incident, and (though he does not admit it immediately) promptly warms up to Boromir. Boromir comes with a Merry-and-Pippin package deal. Merry and Pippin come with Frodo and Frodo comes with Sam. They don’t all like Curufin, necessarily, but they are at least willing to talk to him. The Big Folk fall in line, more or less. Legolas never quite manages to warm up to him; for him more than most of the Fellowship, as a part-Sinda, the Sons of Feanor are the bogeys that his mother used to threaten him with when he was bad, especially C&C. Curufin smirks instead of smiling most of the time. He never forgets anything when he is packing either.

Amrod and Amras are even more of a package deal than Merry and Pippin. Unlike their older brothers, their preferred methods for coping with massive Morgoth-and-kinslaying induced trauma do not involve shouting, frightening people, brooding, or stabbing things — or at least, not only. They got a lot of capital out of being so identical that nobody could tell them apart in Valinor, and this time around they are determined to make use of it in Middle-Earth too. They would rather laugh than cry/yell/brood/stab stuff, so they prove to be the bane of personal belongings, peace and quiet, private conversation, and anybody who does not want a very close and personal acquaintance with the local wildlife. They naturally consider Merry and Pippin kindred spirits. Once all four of them have a plot in motion, it takes Maedhros and Frodo combined to shut them down. (Or Gandalf and Curufin, who were both privately very disconcerted by finding themselves in agreement but not about to show it. Merry and Pippin were very afraid that time. Pippin, mostly, since he started it. ) Of the two, Amrod is the more tactics- and big-picture focussed, and Amras is more detail-oriented, except I swapped these for WOTR, so now it’s the other way round. If they forget stuff while packing, nobody ever knows because they don’t pack like normal people anyway, so there’s really no telling if they forgot underwear or if they just didn’t want any, or if they stowed it in Maedhros’ pack. (They pick Maedhros for things that they will actually want later, because he’s too nice to throw out his brothers’ belongings, even if they are underwear. Curufin will ruthlessly discard any item not his own, regardless of its potential usefulness. The only exception to that rule is when he decides to keep it, and then you’re never getting it back. Maglor is a rather wild packer and there is no guarantee that his pack won’t just swallow the item you want it to temporarily hold. The twins swear that he probably has lost harps in his pack. Celegorm punches anyone who messes with his belongings. Caranthir dumps any unwanted things in your bedroll as many times as it takes until you get fed up and take them back.)


End file.
